“What about the police report that he died of drugs?” I asked. “That doesn’t sound right to me.”
“A lot of Westerners, Europeans and Americans, get into drugs here, when they find out how readily available good stuff is,” murmured Andover. “Our consular section spends half its time visiting people in prisons who insist they’d never touched drugs until they came to Turkey.”
“Look, Lawrence.” There, I’d called him by his first name. I half-glanced at Aslan to see if he reacted. “You and I both know Peter wasn’t an innocent and wasn’t a criminal, either. I can’t see him jeopardizing his career for anything as stupid as drugs.” I bit around the pit of a black olive as I spoke. Aslan’s face had not adjusted its expression one iota.
“Well, maybe not.” Andover’s smile let me know he was teasing. “I agree with you. I like playing devil’s advocate.”
I gave him a grin.
At this point, Ahmet Aslan chimed in as he stood. “I never heard that Franklin took drugs. Doesn’t sound like him.”
Warmth bloomed behind my ribs. “My thoughts exactly!” Aslan, at least, seemed to believe as I did. Couldn’t tell about Andover.
Aslan held out his hand to Andover. “Much as I would like to stay, now I must leave for an appointment.”
I stood, too. I’d only been invited to drinks; it wouldn’t be right to stay longer.
Andover protested politely, but then courteously saw us both to the door. The butler stood there with an impassive expression and our coats. Andover held mine for me and turned to Aslan.
“Are you going her way or shall I call the car?” he asked.
With typical Turkish hospitality, Aslan offered me a ride to the ferry.
I had to admit I enjoyed the luxurious custom leather seats in the red BMW. In a few minutes we were at the Ҫengelköy wharf.
“Take a taxi on the other side,” Aslan said with a devastating smile. ”There are lots of them. And don’t pay more than six liras!”
Ahmet Aslan seemed a man who liked to take control. That never has and never will work with me.
“Certainly,” I said meekly. No harm in letting him think it had.
CHAPTER 31
The tumult of her mind was now painfully great.
Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice
When we got to Eminönü, the ferry stop at Galata Bridge, I caught a bus going up the hill and walked the rest of the way to the Pera under old-fashioned, tulip-shaped street lights. Ha! So much for a man telling me what to do.
I looked over my shoulder as I hurried down Istiklal Caddesi from the bus stop. No need to enter the darkened side streets until I had to. But I didn’t feel afraid. There were plenty of people on Istiklal Caddesi tonight. Well-dressed young couples. Small groups of young men. A few clumps of chattering young women. Young, young, young. Had Istiklal forgotten its diplomatic roots, when carriages drew up to the embassies? When envoys carrying precious gifts to the Sultan were received in Topkapı Palace on the other side of the Golden Horn?
The scene was different now. Shops were mostly closed, but trendy restaurants boomed popular music out their doors. Loud laughter indicated well-heeled patrons were enjoying their rakı and good Turkish wine as well as the music. Disco displacement of history.
I stopped at one of the small shops to get two large bottles of Ayvaz water for the hotel room and stuck them in my bag. Those tiny bottles in the minibar were never enough.
When I turned off Istiklal Caddesi, the streets grew narrow and dark. This was once, after its elite diplomatic heyday, the red light district of “new” Istanbul. Recent prosperity had changed that—or at least made it so high-class it wasn’t obvious to the casual walker.
Here there were smatterings of people, most of whom I couldn’t see clearly. I kept my eyes to the cobblestones to avoid tripping.
Once, someone ran past me the other way, slipping a little as he went. I glimpsed a young face. A handsome face. No. It couldn’t be the passenger I’d seen in that blue car. It looked something like him, though.
I walked faster.
With relief, I reached the street of the U.S. consulate and the Pera Palas. Whew. Safety.
I walked closer to the wall than I usually do. Since my eyes were downcast, I didn’t see the black-clad figure ahead of me until it was too late. I bumped into him.
The man crumpled against the wall, falling to the side where street lights didn’t reach. He landed heavily, a dead weight. I let out a scream.
CHAPTER 32
“They have none of them much to recommend them…”
Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice
Something was very wrong. The man crumpled down the wall when I brushed against him, though the bump hadn’t been hard.
The Pera concierge stepped onto the sidewalk at my cry. Both of us stared at the huddled form in the shadows.
“Dial for help!” I demanded. The concierge ran inside. A taxi stopped to let out passengers in front of the hotel, so I wasn’t alone on the sidewalk. I rushed back to where the still form lay, waving for help from the taxi passengers as I ran. They jumped out and ran over.
Without a flashlight, I could see only the man’s outline. I grasped his shoulder and turned him over carefully.
“Please move.” The voice from behind me carried authority. I was pushed aside. A flashlight beam lit the scene.
“Hold this.” Hands shoved a briefcase into my arms.
Was it a night for peremptory men? Still, I had bumped the poor man and cried out. I held the briefcase as commanded.
The flashlight-wielder was my unwelcome breakfast companion, that Frenchman. Jean Le-something. Le Reau? He leaned over the crumpled figure, held his finger to the man’s neck, felt his torso, then straightened slowly.
“I am afraid there is nothing to do,” he said.
“You mean he is dead?” I tried very hard to keep my voice steady.
“Yes. I fear so.”
“But why? How?” Istanbul wasn’t exactly a murder capital like Detroit.
“There is a knife wound,” said Le Reau, wiping his hand on a handkerchief he pulled from his pocket.
At that moment, the emergency vehicle and police arrived. Jean Le Reau and I gave our preliminary witness statements, as did the concierge. We didn’t have much to tell.
Cautioned by the police that they would need to speak with us again that evening, Le Reau and I headed as one toward the old-fashioned bar of the Pera. We both seemed to need a drink.
CHAPTER 33
Hey, who’s there? Who laughs?
No one, I guess. Dark, empty halls.
Yet laughter rings in my ears.
Günğör Dilmen, “The Ears of King Midas” (play)
Erol Metin vomited in a shadowed gutter. He had followed orders. He had gone out on his own to uphold the honor of glorious Turkey. He should feel proud.
He did not feel proud.
Erol had not killed before. Perhaps this was a normal reaction. He was glad his sister could not see him.
The victim—why did that word come to mind?—had broken with the Silver Wolves. Altan had taken an oath and then had been lured away with money. Someone’s money. That was a capital offense in the group. New members were